


Mouth Wide Open

by nautilicious



Series: Touchstone [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Angst, Cunnilingus, F/M, Hand Jobs, It's not easy being Steve, M/M, Pre-Serum, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:23:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2160507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilicious/pseuds/nautilicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everywhere Steve looked he saw beautiful women. And Bucky, of course, made it impossible for Steve to think chastely about them because while Bucky never gave names, he talked about women and what he loved about them all the time. Steve blushed sometimes, smacked Bucky’s arm, but then he couldn’t help thinking about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mouth Wide Open

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to patternofdefiance, interrosand, and doctornerdington for quick betas and plot structure advice, and hbbo for ladyparts advice. Tomato-greens gets my undying gratitude for sharing her genius for sentences and story; she made all the difference in the world. Thanks to redscuddery for the title and the antidiogenes chatroom as a whole for support and humor.

"You going out, Buck?” Steve asked, even though the answer seemed obvious: Bucky stood in the small room they shared with a towel wrapped around his hips and the crisp buttoned shirt and slacks that Steve thought of as his “dancing clothes” laid on the bed. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Alice,” Bucky replied, and before Steve could ask which Alice he meant, he clarified, “from the butcher shop.”

“Oh,” Steve said, and he hadn’t meant to sound so surprised. When Alice’s brother asked Steve to take her out for her birthday, Steve immediately asked Bucky to do it instead: Steve knew that if people saw awkward Steve Rogers on the dance floor with shy, lazy-eyed Alice, she might never get a date again. Bucky, though—if the one and only Bucky Barnes took her out, she might get some of the attention she deserved. Steve didn’t think Bucky had remembered, especially since Bucky liked saucy, glamorous girls, and Alice, however sweet-natured, wasn’t like that.

Bucky shrugged. “She’s nice.”

Steve knew better than to point out that Bucky was being pretty nice himself. Steve tried not to stare as Bucky began to dress; he’d gotten big from working so many odd jobs, with a small waist and broad shoulders that filled out his shirts. Steve found the sweep and ridges of his hard muscle artistically compelling, like a classic Greek statue brought to life, the kind of body Steve should have and probably never would. No, Steve hadn’t caught up yet, is all. He told himself that the new medicine might make him better, that he might grow a few more inches, that he’d find a gal who’d like him even if he didn’t.

“You should come out with us sometime,” Bucky said as he moved to the mirror to fix his hair. “Either way I win: you come dancing and I have my best friend beside me, or I get to come home to you and tell you all about it.”

“I’m too tired tonight,” Steve lied. When Bucky glanced at him, concern clear on his face, he added, “I’m fine, I’ve just got to get up early tomorrow for that sign-writing job.” Bucky’s ill-concealed relief made Steve hunch his shoulders; he’d been sick over the winter, really sick, and Bucky had worked until he looked ill himself, the skin around his mouth pinched and his eyes smudged with exhaustion.

After Bucky left, Steve tried to read, then to sketch on the back page of last week’s paper, but nothing held his attention. He ended up at the kitchen table, staring off into space. Darkness crept into the apartment and Steve, limbs leaden and neck tense with misery, let it. He sighed, the dimness in the apartment a weight on his chest, the air in his lungs tasting bitter no matter how he shifted his shoulders. After a while he couldn’t bring himself to try any longer and resigned himself to the early night he’d claimed; maybe sleep would carry away his mood. Tomorrow he’d work hard and, if he were lucky, he’d make enough to bring home some meat for dinner. Alice ought to be in a good mood, after all.

* * *

Everywhere Steve looked he saw beautiful women. And Bucky, of course, made it impossible for Steve to think chastely about them because while Bucky never gave names, he talked about women and what he loved about them all the time. Steve blushed sometimes, smacked Bucky’s arm, but then he couldn’t help thinking about it. One time he imagined how he’d draw Kathleen O’Connor pin-up style—long legs and milky skin, the dash of freckles over her nose—and he couldn’t look her in the eye for a week. Steve acted like a gentleman, but now he wanted things that he knew he’d probably never get. His pants never seemed to fit right anymore and he lived in fear of the day he’d get a cockstand and someone would notice.

The women Steve knew smelled distractingly good, even better than the special soaps his mother used to keep in the bathroom. He knew better than to stare at how their clothes clung and swirled around their bodies to emphasise slim waists or rounded hips, but he couldn’t help looking at their hands: the grace in their fingers, the strong lines of their nails. He watched women use their hands to carry purses, to wrap packages, to pay for things, to pat their hair. He watched their gestures, the curve of a palm or the flick of a wrist too fast to ever be captured in a drawing, though he tried. Most of all, he watched how they used their hands to touch other people: the proud grasp on a fella’s arm, the clutch of fingers between giggling women, the tender stroke over a child’s hair.

Eventually Steve learned to handle the warmth that their swaying hips sometimes sparked low in his belly but he never acted on it, because who’d want to go with a little guy like him? He contented himself with drawing them in secret—Margaret Johnson in particular; she had this gorgeous dark hair that shone brown-gold in the sunlight and made him wish he had colored pencils—but he’d resigned himself to admiring them from afar.

The night Bucky went out with Margaret, Steve had to fight to keep his face steady. He’d mooned after Margaret for years and she’d never once looked his way; on Bucky’s arm—well, Steve had always thought she looked a bit like Claudette Colbert, with her eyebrows a fine curved line and her sharp nose tilted up, and Bucky looked just as good as Clark Gable with his hair slicked back and his smile curved just a bit to the right. Steve told Bucky how swell he looked, stammered out a compliment to Margaret, and told them to have a good time. After they left he scratched a thorny forest into the back of his sketchbook, the undergrowth teeming with brambles and half-formed creatures.

The next week Bucky insisted that Steve come along.

“I dunno, Bucky,” Steve said. “I—”

“I don’t want to hear about how you have to work tomorrow,” Bucky said. “It’s your last day; you can go in a little tired.”

Steve pinched his lips together. Bucky never reproached him when he didn’t have a job, but Steve couldn’t help but feeling like he should. He looked away, searching for an excuse Bucky couldn’t refute.

“Margaret really wants you to come,” Bucky added.

“She does?” Steve stomped on the hope that sparked in his chest. Margaret was Bucky’s girl so she and Steve should be friends too; that must be why.

“We both do.” Bucky smiled at him, warm and open and without the artful charm he so often used on other people. Steve’s resolve wavered in the face of that honest entreaty. He didn’t particularly want to spend his night watching Bucky and Margaret dance together, but maybe Margaret might dance with him.

“Well, if you’re gonna twist my arm I guess I can’t refuse,” Steve said, and went to clean up.

* * *

Bucky must have been trying to impress: he paid for the three of them to take the Subway all the way to the Roseland on 51st. Steve preferred their smaller neighborhood joint, even though it always smelled like sausage from the Polish restaurant next door. The Roseland, a former ice rink, held so many people that Steve worried he’d get lost in the crowd. He hugged the wall, trying to ignore the people sitting in the stands behind him, and watched the dancing.

After a while, Margaret and Bucky brought over Evelyn Marks. The upward coil of Margaret’s hair emphasized her slender neck and her lipstick shone red in the light; it took Steve a beat to turn his attention away. Evelyn gave him a tense smile, then asked him to take her onto the floor. Steve looked at Bucky, standing with his arm around Margaret’s waist, and Bucky winked.

It read like pity to him so Steve almost told her no, but Bucky tilted his head, his eyes earnest and hopeful, and Steve had spent most of his life powerless to resist that look. At least he and Evelyn were nearly the same height; some girls towered over him. He’d just settled into dancing when Margaret and Bucky waltzed past. He knew that he and Evelyn looked washed out next to them: sandy-haired and small in stature, their clothes tidy but worn. Steve danced okay despite his lack of practice, and Evelyn didn’t seem to mind when he stepped on her toe. He liked the way she smelled, fresh and lemony. He bought her a drink, had one himself. He made her laugh a few times.

She let him escort her home, and Steve paid for the subway with money he didn’t have to spare. They chatted a bit, mostly about people they knew and, unexpectedly, about baseball. When they exited the station the moon shone full in the sky, washing the streets with a romantic glow, but Steve couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound awkward: small talk seemed out of place under a lover’s moon and telling her that he liked how she looked in the pearly light seemed too vulnerable, so they walked in silence. It had never taken so long to walk a few blocks. When they finally stopped at the bottom of the steps to her apartment, Steve blurted out, “Safe and sound,” and gave her a sheepish smile.

“I’m glad we danced,” Evelyn said.

It sounded like she really meant it, so Steve gathered his courage. “Can we do it again sometime?”

Evelyn’s mouth quirked at one corner, her eyebrows lifting slightly. “There’s a kind of dancing I want to do now,” she said, “and it ain’t for public places.” She opened the door, then waited, looking over her shoulder at him.

Steve didn’t parse her meaning at first, and when he figured it out his skin flared hot, then cold. “You joking?”

She shook her head, her smile deepening; he could see the flash of her teeth in the dark. Steve had seen Bucky wear that look, knew the kinds of things Bucky got up to after he used that grin on a dame. He swallowed, resisting the urge to put his hands in his pockets, and let Evelyn draw him upstairs.

Her bedroom looked a lot like the one he shared with Bucky: sparse, with two dressers and two beds on opposite sides of the room. Evelyn drew him over, sat him on the bed that was clearly hers. He didn’t know what to do with his hands so he clasped them together. He felt sweaty all over. He wasn’t sure if he hoped he got to take his clothes off or not. He wanted to be naked with someone more than anything, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about having someone _see_ him naked and sweaty.

“You ever been with a girl, Stevie?”

Evelyn had a little smirk and Steve knew that she knew he hadn’t. He wondered how many fellas she’d gone with. He decided he didn’t care. She was pretty and smelled good and maybe wanted him.

He shook his head and her smirk shifted into a smile Steve had never seen on her face before: tiny dimples appeared at the corners of her mouth, invitation and mischief clear in her voice as she said, “Didn’t think so. But I like that I get to be first. No bad habits to unlearn.” She sat next to him. “I ain’t gonna let you put it in. Can’t afford getting knocked up by a fella with no prospects. No offense. But we can have some fun.”

She leaned forward and put her mouth against his. Steve froze, panic scrabbling through his mind. When he’d imagined kissing a girl he thought it would be just like the movies: mouths coming together in a perfect sweep of passion. Instead, he felt certain that he had his nose in the wrong place and his neck felt like he’d turned it funny. He puckered up his lips and gave her a smack.

“No, silly, not like you kiss your mother. You gotta have soft lips.”

Evelyn brought her face to his again and he relaxed his mouth. It felt good, her lips satiny and full against his, and he leaned into it. He felt the slickness of her lipstick as her mouth pressed and released into little kisses and he suddenly understood why Bucky came home from his dates with his mouth all swollen. It felt easy to follow her lead, to move his mouth with hers. She made a little hum. “That’s nice, Stevie. Use your tongue a little.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant until she stroked her tongue against his lips. He reflexively parted them and her tongue came inside. The quaking, breathless feeling in his belly went hungry, like he wanted to consume her, and more: a yearning for something he didn’t quite understand. He sucked lightly on her tongue, then followed it back into her mouth. It felt different from his own, the surfaces wet and hot in a way he found inexplicably compelling. Their lips smeared together until the waxy taste of lipstick gave way to the warm taste of her. He stopped thinking completely. When she pulled away Steve felt dazed, his lips tingling and puffy, his trousers tight.

She unbuttoned her blouse. Steve swallowed. Her skin looked soft and glowed in the dim light of the lamp, and the swell of her breasts made his mouth feel dry. He made an involuntary motion with his hand and then put it back in his lap.

Evelyn smiled. “It’s okay,” she said. “You can.”

He reached out to touch the stiff fabric with one finger. She took both his hands in hers and put them against her chest. “They ain’t fragile,” she said. He squeezed carefully and she smiled. “Atta boy. But gentle, you know. You ain’t checking if they’re ripe.”

She reached around behind her back and did something that made her bra fall forward; he lowered his arms reflexively and then her breasts were there, naked in the light. He didn’t know what kind of expression he had on his face but he felt a bit poleaxed; it made her giggle. After a few seconds worrying about about what to do with the bra he told himself it was just laundry and set it aside. He wanted to look at Evelyn’s breasts, knew that she’d revealed them specifically for him to look at them, but he didn’t want stare in a rude way. Bucky had dragged Steve to a blue movie once but the actress had only shown the lower curves before turning away from the camera; Evelyn arched her back and she didn’t seem to mind the way his eyes drank her in. Steve longed for his sketchbook. He had a new understanding for why the masters drew so many nudes.

“You like what you see?” she asked, and he nodded.

Evelyn pulled his hands to her breasts again and his mind blanked. She felt how he imagined silk would, sleek and smooth, except for a faint set of striations near each outer edge. He traced the contours of her breasts, feeling the weight of them. When he tentatively brushed the fingers of his right hand across one dusky nipple she shivered and he hoped it wasn’t because she felt cold. He circled it with his thumb, then pressed it between his fingers. She let out a gasp, but it didn’t sound like pain, so he did it again, watched her skin pebble into goosebumps.

“Put your mouth on them,” she said. He did, tasting around the nipple before pulling it into his mouth. She clutched at his shoulders and the texture under his tongue firmed. “Oh,” she said, a long, low moan. Steve sucked at each breast until she pushed him away. She was breathing hard.

“Feels good, Stevie. Makes me want to try something else.” Evelyn took off her skirt and stood before him in just her slip. It draped over her hips, emphasizing the curve of her waist. Steve’s stomach trembled, like butterflies swirling in the hollow of his ribs, nervous and excited. Then she shimmied out of her underwear and let him look his fill. Her belly rounded gently and a faint trail of golden hair below her navel drew his eyes downwards. Steve’s whole skin felt tight and he felt like he couldn’t quite get enough air.

Evelyn smiled at him indulgently. “You want to make a girl feel good you can use your fingers, but it’s better if you use your mouth.”

“M-my mouth?” he asked. Bucky had said as much, once, but Steve hadn’t really believed that a girl would let a fella do that.

“Too naughty for you?” She cocked her hip, a pose he’d seen her make countless times with her clothes on, and one he’d never be able to see again without imagining her naked.

Steve shook his head.

“So it’s just like eating ice cream. You gotta lick it, you know, but you don’t want to knock the scoop off. And there’s stuff you can do with your tongue.” She stuck out her tongue and swirled it around. “I’m gonna let you try, but if I don’t like it you gotta go home.”

Steve swallowed. “Okay,” he said.

Evelyn lay down on the bed and spread her legs. Steve stood a moment longer, gathering his courage, and then knelt by the edge of the bed. He fretted about where to put his hands before he decided that on the sheets seemed safest. Her nethers were framed with golden hair, arched like a cathedral around furled skin at the center.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say because she got a funny look; pained, almost angry. He knew he’d spill her body into his sketchbook later, that he’d draw those curves in his mind’s eye for months to come. Now, here, he wanted to feel, to taste, to press their bodies together.

“Go on then,” she said. He leaned forward, kissed her there. The smell reminded him of a fresh day at the beach: heat and moisture, and the salt tang of sweat, but a kind of sweetness, too. It was wonderful. He divided the folds of her with his tongue, licking firmly up the center of her, and her thighs twitched.

“That’s right,” she said. He did it a few more times, then changed the direction and pressure of his strokes, noting her reactions. He tried small motions and large ones, and whatever wrung a quiet moan from her throat he made sure to repeat. After a while he felt a firm nub of flesh under his tongue. On impulse he sucked it into his mouth.

“Oh, god, Stevie,” Evelyn gasped. She grew slick, her juices painting his lips and chin. He couldn’t get enough, scooping her moisture into his mouth, licking at her until she rubbed herself against his face, hard. She grabbed his head, held him steady.

“Don't stop," she said. Her voice had gone all quavery. She bucked up and then her legs stiffened. She made a muffled noise, body arched and immobile, and then dropped her pelvis down to the bed with a long sigh.

Steve had been so focused on Evelyn that he’d almost managed to ignore the ache in his groin, but now it came roaring back into his awareness with an intensity he’d never felt before. He found his hips thrusting against her bed, once, twice, and then he came on a strangled groan.

The sound of their ragged breathing filled the room. Steve put his head down on the bed. He felt euphoric and embarrassed all together, but mostly he felt dizzy. Evelyn pushed his head away so that she could close her legs. She sprawled on the bed, belly rising and falling slower as he watched. Steve had to wait for his body to calm before he could stand.

“You’re a natural,” she said, smiling warmly. “All the girls will want a turn.”

Steve shuffled his feet. “Um,” he said. He stood there in a kind of daze until she sat up, reached for her dressing gown.

“My sister will be home soon,” she said. “But I had a real nice time, Stevie.”

He nodded dumbly. “Me too,” he said.

The next thing he knew, he’d made it home. Bucky sat at the table, drinking a glass of water. Steve wondered what had gone wrong with Bucky’s date that he was home before Steve, but then Bucky gave him a crooked grin. “Enjoy yourself?” he asked.

Steve felt the blush go all the way down his chest. “Yeah,” he mumbled, and fled to the shower. He stood under the water until it ran cold, feeling as though the world had tilted on his axis. He wasn’t sure why he felt so wrong-footed; Bucky had done this and more on his dates, but having Bucky seem to know exactly what Steve had gotten up to made his belly feel tight and uncomfortable.

When Steve finally came out of the bathroom, Bucky was gone. Steve felt a faint haze of worry about it, but exhaustion overruled it; once he tumbled into bed he fell asleep almost immediately.

* * *

“Evelyn told me about you,” they said, and somehow the night would end in their bedrooms. He'd take off their clothes, press his face into their softest parts. He loved every variation of the sweet, earthy taste they carried between their thighs, all the secrets and shapes of their bodies. He learned to read the subtle signals in their gasps and the twitches of their hips with an ease he'd never had for anything outside a sketchbook.

It felt good to be so close to someone. In those moments of shared sweat and pleasure Steve’s heart filled with tenderness, as though something sacred flowed through the connection of their bodies. And then afterward, they’d pull on their dressing gowns and tell him goodnight. None of them ever kissed him after. Two of them never kissed him at all.

Steve learned how to come quietly in his pants. Sometimes they touched him through his clothes, and once Evelyn stroked his bare cock and it felt so good that he came right away, but most often he walked home so hard it hurt. In bed, he stroked himself desperately, remembering the sounds they made when they came under his mouth, and spilled across his hand in minutes.

They must have had some kind of system worked out because he never saw any of them on the same night. Whenever he ran into them at the dance hall they always called him Stevie with a knowing smile. They danced with Bucky more often than they danced with Steve.

He didn’t see Bucky much at home during those months. Steve felt glad enough not to have to explain the condition of his trousers when he stumbled inside in the dark, but he missed him. It felt like living alone, to be honest, but lonelier, because Bucky’s things would migrate around the room and remind Steve of his absence.

Then the day came that Margaret Johnson caught him outside their neighborhood dance hall. She’d ignored him inside, as usual, but here she stood, cool as anything, on the block between their apartments.

“Evelyn tells me you can show a girl a good time,” she said. “Come on.”

Steve stared at her, then blurted, “What about Bucky?”

Margaret laughed. “Don’t you worry about him. He’s a handsome fella, but I’ve got my eye on something better.”

For one moment Steve dared to hope that maybe she meant him. Perhaps they would reminisce about this moment in the years to come. She’d say that she’d finally been so curious to discover the mysteries hidden behind his quiet demeanor that she had to proposition him, and he’d give her a fond, knowing grin. They’d go to breakfast, plates laden with the rich foods of peacetime: bacon, butter, and soft bread. When they returned home they’d make love for hours. 

Then he remembered she’d spent most of the night on on the arm of a tall man wearing an expensive suit. Margaret walked away, obviously expecting him to follow.

“Wait—I have to know. You and Bucky. You’re through, right?”

She turned back to him, her face pinched with irritation. “Yes,” she said. “We broke it off already.”

Steve bit his lip. His mouth tasted sour and his belly felt tight; what if he did it wrong? He loved her quick wit but had seen it sting people she disliked; if he displeased her she could take him apart. He knew he wasn’t a very smooth lover, just an observant one, and he couldn’t possibly live up to the men she usually went with.

“Come on,” she said, and the heels of her shoes clicked loudly as she walked down the sidewalk.

Steve felt his opportunity slipping away, and found that unacceptable. He squared his shoulders. He had some experience now; he could do this. He’d make her feel good and—and the sharp look in her eyes would grow tender. She’d be soft and dazed with pleasure, and she’d want to see him again. And he’d do it even better next time, until one day she’d look at him, really look at him with all that keen perception and see past his skinny body and to the truth of what Bucky always said: that Steve was a catch and any dame would be lucky to have him.

Or. Steve swallowed. Or maybe this would be his only chance. Maybe he’d make love to her and then she’d send him away, and he’d have to live with that. He’d wanted her for so long, to be _his girl_...he had to try. He stepped quickly and caught up with her at the corner.

She lived with her parents but the apartment stood dark. Steve moved with care anyway; he definitely did not want to get on the wrong side of Mr. Johnson’s temper. Margaret had her own room at the top of the stairs, tidy and full of color. Steve stood by the door; even with as many dames as he’d gone with he never quite knew what to do with himself in those first moments in their room.

Margaret didn’t give him time to be awkward. She dragged him over to her bed and gestured towards the buttons of her dress. “Show me what you can do, Stevie.”

He took off her clothes with trembling fingers; her body curved as soft and smooth as he’d imagined. He wanted to take his time, to explore every piece of skin bared to his touch, but she kept brushing his hands away. Once undressed, she kissed him on the mouth rough and fast, and then guided his head down between her legs.

Steve looked at her as long as he dared before nuzzling between her thighs. She wore a floral perfume which made his nose itch a bit, but once he began licking at her in earnest the clean scent of her spread itself across his face. He tried to infuse his lovemaking with all of his pent-up longing. She held herself still for a long moment, so long that Steve felt again the clutch of panic low in his guts, but then she began to writhe and gasp.

Margaret came quick and hard. He pulled back but she grabbed his head, demanding, “More.” He put his mouth back against her, moving his tongue delicately over her folds; most girls wanted him to stop touching them, after. She grabbed his hair impatiently so he he pulled her little bud of flesh into his mouth, sucking carefully as she moaned above him.

“Put your fingers in,” she said. Steve froze. He’d only done that once, with Evelyn, and he wasn’t sure she’d liked it. His heart raced and he felt the roil of nerves in his stomach, but he grew harder in his shorts as he brushed hesitantly against her opening.

“Come on, Stevie,” she said, giving her hips a little twitch.

He slid his finger in slowly, trembling at the feeling: hot and smooth, gentle ridges catching against his finger. The intimacy of being inside someone else’s body pooled warm and tender in his chest. He moved his finger in and out, marveling at how her body clutched at him.

“Another,” she said, panting.

He did, pushing inside as far as he could, and with two fingers he could keep up the speed and intensity the bucking of her pelvis demanded. He couldn’t quite find the right angle for his wrist but he didn’t stop. It felt different, farther inside, and when he curled his fingers up to feel it Margaret threw her head back, so he kept doing it. Margaret’s mouth opened and she inhaled as though to scream and then came silently, her muscles contracting around his fingers.

Steve felt the familiar throbbing in his groin that meant he was close to coming, but he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Margaret. He held his breath, thought about the leak threatening to become a real problem behind the toilet at home, and managed to pull himself back from the brink.

He carefully withdrew his fingers and Margaret sat up. She didn’t make a move to cover herself. He made sure to keep his eyes on her face; even after what they’d done together, it seemed rude to stare.

Margaret sprawled on the bed, her face as soft and relaxed as Steve could have wanted, and he gave her a shy smile. She stretched, extending her arms and rolling her neck, then sat up. “That was good,” she said. “Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.”

“I’d like that,” Steve said. He resisted the urge to put his hands in his pockets. He had her smeared across his face; it was now or never. “I’ve always liked you, Margaret.”

She smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Aww, Stevie, you sweetheart,” she said. “I’m flattered, but I’m moving up in the world, you know?”

He looked away, nodding mutely. Heat rushed from the back of his neck over his cheekbones.

She pulled on her robe, tying the sash firmly around her waist. “Don’t worry. I set you up good with Evelyn, didn’t I? And her friends. You’ll find someone.”

Steve blinked. “You— ?”

Margaret laughed. “And aren’t you glad I did.” She stood up, moved toward the washstand. “Go on home, Stevie.”

* * *

When Steve got home Bucky was there, sitting shadowed at their small table. He’d been haunting the place like a broody ghost the last few days, sitting and smoking by the window, watching Steve get dressed to meet one girl or another, saying nothing. Steve didn’t know what was eating him but he’d given up asking.

“Didn’t expect to see you,” Bucky said. “Weren’t you out with one of your girls tonight?”

“Margaret,” Steve answered. He still couldn’t believe it.

Bucky got to his feet, came right up to Steve, stood too close, their chests nearly touching. For years, Steve had counted on Bucky’s steady, protective presence, the strength in Bucky’s back—and in his fists—always used on Steve’s behalf; now, as the tension between them rose, Steve wondered if Bucky might hit him. He took a step back without meaning to, but Bucky didn’t let Steve have any space. Bucky loomed over him, and brought his nose so close to Steve’s face that Steve could feel the wash of hot, sour air against his cheek.

“You smell like pussy,” he said.

“You smell like booze,” Steve said hotly. “Thought you’d’ve had enough of that growing up.”

“Margaret,” Bucky said. “She threw me over for you.” He said it flat, like he didn’t care, but Steve recoiled. Bucky grabbed his wrist, hard, kept him in place. “They all have. Stevie and his magic tongue, who never asks for anything. Won’t even kiss them if they don’t want it. Doesn’t ever need to come. But you do, don’t you? I’ve heard you stroke off sometimes before you go out, or after. You come in your pants and they don’t even know. They think you’re perfect lapdog Stevie, and now the likes of me aren’t good enough for them. I’m out in the cold and you’re face deep in all the dames we know.”

Steve tried to pull away, twisting his body, but he couldn’t break Bucky’s hold on his wrist. Bucky’s body radiated heat, a long angry line against Steve’s side. Steve stilled. Bucky slowly licked from the corner of Steve’s mouth to the center of his lips. “I can taste her on you,” he murmured.

Steve’s breath stuttered. He’d never once thought about kissing Bucky but now the idea of it blazed across his mind; he wanted to part his lips, curl their tongues together. He shivered, wondered how he’d never known until this moment how much he might want that. The small hairs on his arm prickled, goosebumps sweeping across his skin. He still wondered if Bucky might hit him—and he figured he’d take it if he did, let Bucky get out whatever had him so wound up—but what he really wanted was for Bucky to pull him closer, the frightening strength of his body gentled as he wrapped Steve in his arms and—Steve’s mind crashed to a halt. He stood motionless, his lips tingling where their mouths almost met, and he could feel Bucky trembling. Bucky closed his eyes, and when he opened them the look in them was cold. 

“What do you say, _Stevie_?” Bucky snarled. “Care to show me what all the girls are swooning about?” He grabbed Steve by the back of the head and pushed their mouths together so hard it hurt.

It wasn’t a kiss as much as an invasion. Their teeth clicked together and Bucky’s tongue tasted of the bitter residue of alcohol. Steve felt as though he’d been doused in ice water. He socked Bucky in the jaw, the punch weak and at an awkward angle, but Bucky let him go.

“You’re drunk,” Steve said. “You need to lie down.”

Bucky shook his head. “Not that drunk.”

“Drunk enough to think—” Steve felt hot all over, flushed and queasy at the same time. “You think I’ll mess with anybody, so you might as well have a piece too?”

Bucky looked as though Steve had hit him again, and then he looked away. “No.”

“Then why—“ Steve swallowed.

Bucky didn’t answer. Neither spoke for a long moment, the silence in the apartment broken only by the sounds of the night coming in through the window. Bucky wouldn’t meet Steve’s eyes.

“Go sleep it off, Buck,” Steve said at last. “I’ll get you some water and we’ll just forget this happened, okay?” He turned towards the kitchen, filled a glass from the tap. Bucky didn’t answer.

* * *

He might have worried that Bucky wasn’t coming back, but Bucky had left all his important things behind. Steve stumbled through the next day, leaving the house only when Alice begged him to take her shift at the butcher shop so that she could stay home sick. He ignored the girls he saw on the street, pretending he didn’t see their subtle come-hither glances. Any happiness he’d found in their beds felt poisoned by Bucky’s bitterness; it felt like a lie.

He sat at his kitchen table for the better part of two days, staring at the ashes of Bucky’s last cigarette, watching everything he drew try to turn into the curve of Bucky’s mouth, the line of his jaw, the crinkle of his eyes when he smiled. He wore through his eraser before he gave up and let it happen. He’d only drawn Bucky a handful of times over the years, but Steve found that he could draw him easily, each stroke of the pencil revealing the wealth of details held secret and quiet in Steve’s memory.

After a while it became a kind of madness; even though it might be months before he could afford another sketchbook, his pencils scribbled Bucky across the pages. He drew until his hands cramped, until his eyes burned, and the tangled mess of feelings in his guts unwound to reveal a truth that surprised Steve only in how long it had taken him to uncover it.

He fell asleep over his drawings and woke in the evening, neck stiff, and had to take a shower to wash away the aches of sitting still for so long. When he came out, Bucky was sitting at the table, flipping through the sketchbook. He’d cleaned up somewhere, changed his clothes, but he looked exhausted. Steve stood motionless against the door, watching him.

Bucky tapped a page: on the paper, his face glowed, dappled with light and shadow. “That how I look to you?”

Steve cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said.

Bucky bit his lip, flipped back to a drawing of Evelyn. “You didn’t draw her like that,” he said.

“No,” Steve said. He clutched at the towel around his waist. A drop of water trickled down his chest down to his navel and he saw Bucky’s gaze follow it. He looked Steve in the face, set the sketchbook aside, crossed the room slowly; Steve didn’t move, let Bucky crowd him against the bathroom door. His stomach clenched the way it did just before the roller coaster dropped, and the air hitched in his lungs: erratic, uncomfortable, a hint of pressure at the back of his throat.

Bucky went still, then began to breathe slowly in and out. Steve could smell him, warm and close. He couldn’t look away from Bucky’s eyes, the pupils dark against a blue like the the sun shining on the harbour. Slowly, the rise and fall of his chest aligned with Bucky’s, his lungs relaxing as Bucky breathed him to calmness with the ease of long practice. Steve suddenly felt the intimacy of it, the mingling of air they’d shared so many times, and his chest felt strange, a kind of tightness that had nothing to do with his lungs.

Bucky put his palm against Steve’s cheek and held it there a moment. “You okay?” he asked. Steve nodded. Bucky’s body anchored Steve, the lines and shapes of it as familiar as his own. His face tingled where Bucky touched him and Steve licked his lips, yearning pulsing low in his belly. Bucky’s mouth twisted into a strange smile, soft but pained. The tension stretched between them, Steve’s heart racing, and then Bucky broke it by dropping his hand and shifting his weight back.

“Steve—“ Bucky began, and Steve froze. Next Bucky would step away, maybe crack a joke, and Steve couldn’t bear it. He grabbed Bucky’s arm and pressed his lips up into Bucky’s. Bucky went immobile for an agonizing moment, and then kissed Steve back, pouring a small, needy sound into Steve’s mouth. Steve knew how to kiss now, and this felt more like being devoured, Bucky’s mouth hot against his and tasting so, so good. Steve clutched at him, his head spinning. All the feelings he’d tried to exorcise in his sketchbook flooded him, the roil of confusion in his belly drowned out by the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. He _wanted_ , his body shaking with the force of it.

Bucky pushed Steve hard against the door and slid his hand under the towel. Steve whimpered at the feel of Bucky’s calloused fingers stroking him in long, rough pulls. He thrust helplessly, kisses growing sloppy and breathless as he whined into Bucky’s mouth. Steve lost any finesse he’d ever learned in the overwhelming wash of sensation; all he could do was hang on, fingers clenching and unclenching in the fabric of Bucky’s shirt as Steve tried to stifle the sounds pouring from his throat. Bucky rubbed himself against Steve’s hip, his pants damp against Steve’s skin, and cursed quietly. They rutted together until Steve thought he might die from it, until Bucky groaned Steve’s name, jerking erratically against him. Steve squeezed his eyes shut as he pulsed all over Bucky’s hand.

Bucky recovered first. He gently untangled their bodies, passed Steve the towel that had fallen away unnoticed, then slipped past Steve to wash up in the bathroom. Steve leaned against the wall by the door, letting his heartbeat slow. When Bucky came back into the room he gave Steve a searching glance and then said, “All yours.”

Steve washed himself slowly, the skin of his cock tender, and then washed his hands. His eyes looked wide and shocky even after he splashed water over his face. He took another moment to stare at himself in the mirror and then decided that only a coward would stay in the bathroom. He wore the towel out, pulled on clothes like he would any other day. His hands were shaking.

Bucky sat at the table, Steve’s sketchbook closed in front of him, two cups of water side by side. He looked wrecked, his lips red and swollen, and his color high. Bucky fiddled with his cup. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have.”

“It’s okay, Buck.” Steve’s throat felt dry. “I wanted to.”

“Yeah, but—” Bucky scrubbed at his face. Steve sat down across from him, drank some water. His body felt relaxed and soft, but the warm feeling in his belly withered when Bucky looked at him, his gorgeous mouth pulled into a tense line. Steve’s stomach clenched with a cold, queasy feeling, but he tried to keep it off his face.

“I shouldn’t have,” Bucky said again. “You just got started with all this; you don’t really know what you’re doing. I shouldn’t have taken advantage.”

Steve flushed. “I’m pretty good with the dames,” he objected. “And I told you I wanted to.” He’d wanted it more than anything in his life, but he didn’t think he should admit that when Bucky so obviously regretted it. And then he blurted, “Didn’t you like it?” He winced as soon as the words came out of his mouth.

Bucky laughed, a sound devoid of mirth. “I did,” he said. “That doesn’t make it right.” He straightened in his chair, gave Steve an earnest glance. “You’re my best friend. You’re going to settle down with one of those girls and be happy. Maybe have a bunch of kids. And I—" He swallowed. “I’m going to make sure there’s a world you can be happy in. I enlisted.”

Steve felt a rushing in his ears like he’d fallen from a great height, the impact with the ground sweeping inevitably towards him. He sat, still and silent for long moments as evening stole the last of the light, the room echoing with everything he couldn’t bear to say. Bucky shifted in his seat, hands gripping the edge of his pants, then stood.

“Let’s get some dinner, huh?” He held his hand out to Steve, like he had a hundred other times, and Steve let Bucky draw him to his feet. He let go right away, trying to forget how, a short time before, that hand held his cock. He wanted to entwine their fingers, to bring Bucky’s hand to his mouth, to drag Bucky to one of their beds and make Bucky take it back, make him stay.

Instead, he told himself that it had happened because Bucky didn’t want to make Steve feel bad about kissing him. Bucky touched everything with an easy sensuality and Steve lived so hungry for touch—it was just a body thing. A favor, between friends. And Steve had kissed Bucky because...well, Bucky was his oldest and best friend. Steve had just gotten mixed up about it, is all.

Steve made sure to keep the conversation light-hearted. He razzed Bucky about what a lousy soldier he’d make. He forced a pleasant expression on his face. He told himself it was better this way, and by the time they’d finished dinner he almost believed it.

* * *

Bucky spent the next week going on a whirlwind of dates, a new girl on his arm every night. He always invited Steve along, but Steve didn’t go. He tried to put on a good front, getting out of the house, picking up a few odd jobs in the afternoons, but he found himself avoiding eye contact with most people, especially the women Evelyn—or, Margaret, apparently, though he still couldn't fathom why—had sent his way.

Eventually, Margaret cornered him on his front steps. “What’s the matter with you, Stevie? You too good for my friends now?”

He opened his mouth to apologize, to tell her that he’d just been feeling under the weather lately, but instead he found himself saying, “I’m not interested anymore, Margaret.”

Her lips pursed, annoyance etching tiny lines around her narrowed eyes; he wondered how he’d failed to notice them before. “What do you mean?” she asked. “You’ve got it good. Any one of the fellas around here would kill to be in your shoes.”

“Maybe,” Steve said. He gave her a long look, remembering how proud he’d felt when she threw her head back in a silent scream, and how she wouldn’t touch him otherwise. Something ugly uncoiled itself in his belly. “You want to go down to the dance hall with me, spend the night on my arm? Show the world that you want me in your bed?”

Steve wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t been looking, a quick flare of fury in her eyes before she cocked her head to the side, charm and innocence settling over her features like a mask. “Now, Stevie–”

Steve straightened his spine and felt, for the first time in months, the stubborn certainty at the core of him. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’m through being a dirty secret. You tell your friends I’m done.” 

She could destroy him socially, make it so that he never got another date, send him back to the days when the girls giggled about him behind their hands; but Bucky had gotten his papers, so what did it matter? Any day now his best friend would cross the ocean to die. The blaze of self-righteousness in his chest went cold and the weight of loss returned to hunch his shoulders and sour his belly.

“You listen here,” Margaret began, poking him in the chest. It hurt, but the sharpness of it came almost as a relief: a finite pain of the body, simple in its sensation. Margaret kept talking but he turned and went inside, letting the sharp, quick slashes of her angry words deflect against his back.

He showered and dressed, making sure to put on his cleanest boxers, and took extra care with his hair. He’d been rejected by the enlistment office in New York, but maybe he’d have better luck in Jersey. The Allies were losing the war and all contributions helped; surely, _someone_ needed him?

**Author's Note:**

> Story fueled by London Grammar's album If You Wait.


End file.
